


six seeds

by lilacloveletters



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Mutual Pining, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Yennefer is Hecate, geralt is hades, jaskier is persephone, no beta we die like men, they’re all soft and idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23328820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilacloveletters/pseuds/lilacloveletters
Summary: Jaskier has always hated how controlling his mother is. When he finds a tunnel leading to the Underworld, mixed curiosity and foolishness lead him to the tunnel’s end. Geralt has no idea what to do with the living (and admittedly beautiful) stranger suddenly in his midst.[EDIT 7/12/20: THIS WORK IS ABANDONED AND WILL NOT BE COMPLETED]
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 17
Kudos: 90





	1. prelude (the bard meets the pit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier makes a foolish decision.

Jaskier is sick and tired of being treated like a child.

“Mother, is it really necessary for three nymphs to go with me? I’ve been to this exact meadow hundreds of times and nothing has happened,” he argues, hating the petulance that creeps into his voice. “I know you want me to be safe, but I can take care of myself!”

Demeter scowls. “Absolutely not!”

“Mother-”

“Don’t argue with me, Julian,” she says, her stern tone brooking no argument. “I’ve already summoned Mysteise, Idophia, and Arasine. They will take you to the meadow and no further. I am busy with council meetings today, so do try to keep yourself out of trouble, won’t you?” His mother presses a chaste kiss to his forehead before sweeping out of sight.

Fuming, Jaskier waits in the neatly pruned garden for the nymphs. When they arrive, chattering about meaningless nonsense and flitting about like birds, he lets them escort him to the meadow but doesn’t engage in conversation. It’s not that he dislikes the sisters; in fact, they’re really quite nice, if a bit airheaded. The fact that they’re deemed necessary is what rankles him.

Luckily, Jaskier has gotten rather good at giving nymphs the slip.

When they arrive at the meadow, Jaskier waits for a time before pulling Mysteise aside.

“What is it, young one?” she asks.

He bites his lip. “It is merely that… well, I have found myself to be quite taken with Idophia,” he admits, his voice lowering.

“Is that so?” The nymph looks amused.

“Yes. And on our way here I happened to see a patch of narcissus flowers. I think one of those would make a lovely gift for her… don’t you?” He lets his gaze drift towards Idophia before quickly looking back at Mysteise.

“It’s not far from here, is it?”

“No, not at all,” he assures her. “Just--may I ask you one last favor?”

“Of course, young one.”

“Please don’t tell my mother about this. I do not know if she would approve of any… romantic endeavors on my part.”

Mysteise’s lips quirk up at the corners. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Go now, but be swift. I don’t know if I’ll be able to distract my sisters for very long.”

“Thank you,” he says, beaming as he turns back to the path. “I owe you one, really.”

“It’s no trouble, young one,” she replies, and then he’s off.

Jaskier waits until he is a safe distance down the path before turning into the woods. He lets out a whoop of delight, taking his lute from where it is strapped to his back and beginning to strum a few chords.

To Jaskier, music is an escape. It’s the only thing that’s truly his, untouched by his mother’s guiding hands. She approves of it, although she has said that sometimes she wishes he spent more time working with his gift than with his lute.

Never mind that though. For the rest of this glorious summer afternoon, Jaskier is free.

He plays as he walks through the verdant forest, singing anything that comes to mind. Ditties, ballads, even a few of his own compositions. They’re still rough, and he finds himself at a loss when confronted with what comes next.

“What word rhymes with garden?” he wonders aloud. “Hearten? No, not quite… pardon, maybe?--oh, shit!”

Jaskier scrambles back from the edge of the pit he had failed to notice in his creative fervor. His composition forgotten, he cautiously peers down into the gaping hole. It doesn’t go straight down; in fact, it’s really more of a tunnel that slopes down into hazy darkness. The edges of the tunnel are strangely smooth, as though it was carved out from the soil rather than formed by a cave-in or some such. That combined with the bone-deep chill radiating from the mouth of the tunnel is enough to warn Jaskier that this is not a natural cave.

“Who made this?” he murmurs, replacing his lute on his back and leaning down in an attempt to see further into the tunnel. “And why?”

Deep down, he knows where--no, who this tunnel leads to. How could he not? His mother rarely speaks of her reclusive brother, but the nymphs whisper things that Jaskier’s ears are too sharp to miss. This god is not one that anyone in their right mind would want to cross. Even Jaskier isn’t foolish enough for that.

And yet.

Jaskier has always wanted to be the kind of person who went on journeys so great they were still sung about centuries later. His mother wanted him to stay at home and learn how to better control plants and crops; he wanted to see the world, to find an adventure that was his to explore.

It is this deep, burning desire for adventure that leads Jaskier to ever-so-carefully drop down to the floor of the tunnel (“just for a closer look,” he tells himself) and take a few steps down in, shivering at the chill (“for observational purposes, truly”). It is this longing to escape the controlling hand of his mother that prompts him, when the faint searching cries of the nymphs reach his ears, to turn away from the mouth of the pit and practically bound down the tunnel, heedless of what he may find at its end.

(For curiosity’s sake, of course. Nothing more.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was so short! It’s meant to be an introduction of sorts. The next one will be longer!


	2. welcome to the underworld

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier gets in trouble. A deal is struck.

The tunnel continues to crawl downwards in pitch blackness for what feels like an eternity. Even with his hand constantly brushing against the cool soil of the tunnel wall, Jaskier begins to feel disoriented. The darkness presses in on him, heavy with a chill that slips easily through his thin summer tunic. Rattled, he automatically reaches out with his mind, searching for life.

There are no roots this far down, as he had expected. The soil down here is not nearly as nutrient-rich as it is in the upper layers. But there is… something, vast and alive, but in a different way from plants. Jaskier frowns and mentally prods at it, and an answering hum returns as several delicate mushrooms unfurl themselves at the floor of the tunnel, their bell-shaped caps emitting an unearthly blue glow.

“Well, that’s interesting,” he mutters. Another tug and the mushrooms pop up in hordes, casting a faint light through the tunnel.

“Thank you for the light,” Jaskier says politely, hurrying onwards. No normal mushrooms should have been sprouting in a tunnel like this, and he doesn’t want to offend any minor deity or nymph that they may belong to.

The distance passes more quickly with light to see by, and soon Jaskier realizes that the tunnel is beginning to level out. He hurries forward, practically tripping over his own feet in his haste to reach the tunnel’s end. When he reaches the mouth of the tunnel, he stops short, eyes wide.

The landscape before him is dark, the glossy black fields stretching out to meet a still, glasslike river. The tiny blue-white mushrooms from before are scattered across the terrain. They cast a faint glow on the scene, but most of the light is gray and dreary, emanating from an unknown source in the blank, slate-gray sky.

And the dead are _everywhere_ , pale wraiths that seem to flicker in and out of existence as they aimlessly shuffle about. Jaskier likes to say that he doesn’t spook easily, but this sight fills him with a bone-deep fear the likes of which he’s never felt before.

Jaskier shakes his head. _You wanted to come down here,_ he reminds himself. _Might as well have a look around, shall we?_

He hasn’t even taken two steps outside the tunnel before the opening seals itself shut behind him with an echoing rumble reminiscent of a peal of thunder. And then, as if that weren’t bad enough, all of the nearby dead turn as one to stare at the living being in their midst. Jaskier freezes, staying as still as possible.

“Go back to what you’re doing,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “Please?”

They begin shuffling towards him.

“ _Shit._ ”

Jaskier begins to run, wrenching away from the cold hands that grasp at his shirt, his arms, his legs, anything they can get a grip on. He can feel them tugging at his lifeforce, wanting it for themselves. It’s a horrible, sickening feeling, made worse by the fact that there are so _many_ of them.

He catches a glimpse of a boat on the shore of the river, a hooded figure standing in it. _If I could just get to that, then maybe--_ Desperation fueling his limbs, Jaskier fights through the crowd of the dead. Even with adrenaline surging through him, his progress is distressingly slow, and his energy drains alarmingly quickly.

 _I’m not going to make it,_ he realizes.

Right before Jaskier collapses, he is aware of being lifted up and tossed over someone’s shoulder. _Be gentle,_ he tries to say, but instead he blacks out.

Yennefer scatters the dead with a wave of her hand before opening a portal that crackles with violet magic. She steps through into the hall of the king of the dead.

“I don’t understand why I’m always doing your dirty work, Geralt,” she says, unceremoniously dumping the body onto the jet-black marble floor.

The king just grunts in response, his golden eyes narrowed as he stares at the unconscious godling.

“Who the hell is that?”

She shrugs. “Beats me. Somehow he made it down here and ended up being accosted by your subjects.”

“Hmm.”

“Well, I’m off,” Yennefer says, dusting off her hands. “I have better things to do than run errands for you. Good luck with this.”

Geralt half-stands. “Yennefer, wait--”

She’s already stepping through another portal, her only acknowledgement a little wave as she goes.

He sits back down, a scowl etched into his face.

“Fuck.”

When Jaskier wakes, he has a splitting headache. He groans, rubbing his eyes and then looking around. He’s in a simple but expensive-looking room, clearly intended for guests. The bed he’s in is dressed with simple bedclothes: sheets, a plain black duvet and two white pillows. He looks around, noting the thin sheen of dust on the wardrobe, the mirror, and the edge of the basin. This room clearly hasn’t been used in a while.

Jaskier pushes back the covers and gets up, walking to the basin and splashing cold water on his face. His headache abates some, and he examines his reflection, grimacing at the tears in his tunic. He can’t very well leave the room to greet his unknown host in a shirt that is little more than tatters; he has better manners than _that_. Standing, he crosses the room and opens the wardrobe, shivering at the chill. It’s filled with a number of expensive-looking, brightly colored doublets and tunics in various jewel tones. The strangest thing about it is that all of them look like they’re in his exact size.

He takes a teal doublet with red accents off of its wooden hanger and slips it on in place of his ragged tunic. He was right; it fits perfectly. Shrugging, he pulls on the matching pants and combs his hair into something passable before glancing around again. On a table beside his bed is his lute. Jaskier beams, picking it up and hanging it over his back again. With that, he steps out into the corridor.

The corridor is enormous, making it feel even emptier than it already is. The architecture is beautiful, all smooth, polished black stone carved into elaborate arches and pillars that are each individual works of art. He steps closer to examine one and finds intricate designs of poplar trees and skulls nestled in the base of the pillar.

If he’d had any doubts before of whose palace this was, they were gone now. He shivers and keeps walking.

The silence is oppressive, making the air feel still and heavy. Jaskier takes out his lute and begins to hum, the gentle notes falling from the strings helping somewhat to ease his nerves. He finds that while the palace is large and sprawling, large parts of it are unused. Once he peeks through a pair of double doors to find a ballroom covered in cobwebs and dust. It’s sad, he thinks. If he were to own a palace like this, he certainly wouldn’t let it fall into such disrepair.

Finally the corridor opens up into a larger hall. This is the main area of the palace, he realizes; he must have been in one of the wings. The hall leads to a doorway so elaborately carved that he immediately knows what lies on the other side.

A throne room.

Jaskier swallows, replacing his lute upon his back. _If he wanted to kill you, he would have done it already,_ he reminds himself. _Instead, you woke up in a guest room. He is your host. Be polite._

He steels his nerves and lifts the heavy doorknocker. It’s carved in the likeness of a wolf’s head, the ring trapped between its jaws. He knocks. Once. Twice. Three times. On the third knock, the doors swing open of their own accord, their hinges silent.

“Enter,” booms a voice from the other end of the throne room.

Jaskier obeys. When he walks inside, the doors swing shut behind him. He resists the urge to look back and continues walking until he reaches the foot of the throne. He doesn’t dare lift his gaze, staring at the throne’s base. Like the pillar, it’s carved with skulls and poplars, the occasional glittering gemstone studded in the jet-black stone.

 _Would it be polite to bow? Yes. Probably. Better to kneel, actually. You can never go wrong with being too polite._ Jaskier drops to one knee, hiding the way his hands tremble.

“There is no need to kneel in my presence,” the king murmurs, his voice like the scrape of rocks tumbling down a cliff. “You are my guest.”

“O-oh,” Jaskier says, quickly standing back up. “Right. Uhh… this is going to sound terribly clichéd, but how exactly did I get here?”

He finally looks up at the king. His hair is long and bone-white, pulled back at the top and loose about his shoulders. A jet-black crown adorns his head, but the thing that startles Jaskier the most is the king’s eyes, the same bright yellow as a wolf’s. They lock gazes, and Jaskier feels frozen in place.

_The White Wolf indeed._

“A friend of mine found you in an unfortunate situation and brought you here,” he finally says. “Seeing as it was the fault of my subjects that you were hurt, it was my responsibility to make sure you recovered.”

“Recovered?” Jaskier frowns. “How long have I been here for?”

“Not long,” the king says. “It is still night in the mortal world. Plenty of time for you to get back to your mother before she realizes you’re gone.”

His mother. _Shit. She probably already knows you’re gone. You’re not going to be able to go out again for_ ages. _Unless--_

_Unless you work with this._

“Must I really leave so quickly? Surely I should repay you for your hospitality.”

“There’s no need.”

“Really, there must be _something_ I can do.”

“There is nothing.” The king’s gaze hardens.

Jaskier sighs, dropping all pretense. “All right, then. I’ll be honest with you.” The king doesn’t reply, so he continues. “I really do not want to go back to my mother at the moment. I’ll never be allowed outside again.”

“Perhaps that’s for the best,” the king says. “In one afternoon you managed to find an entrance to the Underworld and nearly get yourself killed. I’m going to ask Yennefer to take you back.”

“If you make me go back now, I’ll tell my mother you kidnapped me.”

A pause. “What?”

“I’m very good at spinning tales, you know. I’ll tell her you pulled me onto your chariot from a pit in the ground and dragged me down to the Underworld.”

“I couldn’t care less what you tell Demeter.”

Jaskier tilts his head. “And what if she decides to take her revenge? Something tells me Demeter is not an enemy you would like to have.”

The king stares at him, silent and unreadable.

“However, if you let me stay for a while, when I do decide to leave I’ll tell her the truth. All of it. None of the blame will fall on you.”

Their eyes meet again, and this time Jaskier holds his gaze, a mutinous challenge in his eyes.

“What reason could you possibly have to want to stay in the damn Underworld?”

He shrugs, ignoring the part of him that’s wondering the same thing. “Change of pace, I suppose. I’ve spent enough time studying life, in plant form at least. Why not see what death has to offer instead?”

Silence. And then:

“Fine,” the king growls. “You can stay. For now.”

Jaskier grins. “Much obliged. My name is Jaskier, by the way. And you are…?”

The king remains silent.

“Oh, come on. If I’m going to be staying here, I have to call you _something_. Trust me, you won’t like the nicknames I come up with.”

“Geralt,” he finally says.

“Well then, Geralt, I’m very grateful for your continued hospitality. I’ll take my leave now.” He bows before turning and exiting the throne room.

As Jaskier walks, he ignores the sinking feeling that he’s finally bitten off more than he can chew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't believe how nice everyone's been so far!! this fandom is amazing and i love all of you


	3. an arrangement, of sorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier explores some more of the palace and learns about a few of its inhabitants.

Even though it has been a full night since the throne room’s double doors swung shut, Jaskier can’t shake the feeling of Geralt’s piercing gaze. The way the king had looked at him had been so intense, it had felt like he had been looking right through Jaskier; he had hardly been able to sleep last night for the memory of it.

The king is… interesting, to say the least, Jaskier thinks as he sits up in bed. He isn’t sure what he had been expecting. The black crown and the imposing stature, sure; the gruffness of his voice and the way Jaskier had felt when their gazes met, not so much.

_ Stop it,  _ he scolds himself.  _ He is the king of the dead.  _ Shaking his head, Jaskier goes to stand and notices the tray on the bedside table. While yesterday it had held his lute, now the lute has been moved to a stand that hadn’t been there the first time he woke up in this room and replaced by a polished tray filled with fruit and toast sliced into small pieces. It’s simple fare, but surprisingly similar to what he would eat back home.

He reaches for a strawberry and freezes, remembering an anecdote he’d once heard from a nymph.  _ If you eat food from the Underworld, you’ll be trapped,  _ she had said, eyes flicking nervously back and forth.  _ That’s how  _ he  _ gets you. _

Jaskier frowns. Something isn’t right. Yesterday the king had been adamant he leave, and now he’s trying to trap him here?

His gaze catches on a slip of paper tucked beneath the tray. He pulls it out and unfolds it. The note is written in pitch-black ink that doesn’t shine under the light, and the handwriting is shaky, as though the writer’s hands had been trembling when the note was written.

_ His Majesty wished that we bring you food from the surface to prevent you from being bound to this realm,  _ the note explains.  _ This food can be eaten without fear of repercussions. Additionally, His Majesty has requested that you do not bother him today, as he has official business that must be taken care of. He will send a servant to summon you for dinner. _

His hunger wins out, and he decides to trust the note. After he eats his fill, Jaskier dresses himself in a periwinkle doublet and begins his exploration of the palace again in earnest. His guest room was in the west wing along with a ballroom and several other rooms he hadn’t bothered to explore. In the east wing, Jaskier had found the dining hall, a pair of sealed black doors that he suspected led to the king’s chambers, and a courtyard. The dining hall was striking, with an arched ceiling decorated with glittering black chandeliers, but like so many other parts of the palace, it seemed somewhat neglected. He had taken one lingering glance at the long table only set for one, the chairs covered with dust, and turned away with a heavy sense of melancholy settling in his chest.

Now he sits on a stone bench in the courtyard, his lute settled on his lap. It’s a sad courtyard, in Jaskier’s humble opinion. Despite the fact that it’s quite possibly the largest courtyard he’s ever seen, its only botanical inhabitants are the same obsidian-colored grass as outside and a few twisted, scraggly trees with no leaves on their branches. Jaskier reaches out to them and is surprised to find that they are in fact alive, albeit barely. He smiles and sets his lute down, leaving the bench to kneel at the base of one of the trees.

This close to the tree, one hand on its trunk and the other on a root that juts from the ground like the rib of a hungry child, he can  _ feel _ that this tree was beautiful, once. But like everything else in this palace, it had fallen into disrepair.

“That was not very kind of him, to let you get this way,” Jaskier murmurs, and the tree hums in agreement. “It’s all right now, though. I am here.” He opens himself up and  _ pours  _ his love into the tree, reminding it how it used to be. His eyes flutter closed as the tree absorbs the energy he sends it. Its life force is strong now, a vibrant green practically shimmering with life.

He opens his eyes and lets out a startled laugh. The tree had been slightly shorter than him before, but now it towers over him, its crown of silver-blue leaves fluttering in a gentle breeze.

Jaskier looks around the courtyard and realizes that his energy must have spread to the other trees as well, seeing as they’re all fully grown and beautiful. They form a canopy above his head, the dappled light playing across the sparkling grass. Scattered across the courtyard are tiny wildflowers in shades of blue and white.

Normally such a large display of his power would have left him weak and exhausted, but here it was as easy as breathing. Jaskier realizes that in the Underworld, the plants are so starved for any kind of energy that it doesn’t take nearly as much to restore them, which explains why the energy he had allotted for one tree had ended up being enough to transform the entire courtyard. It’s a bit sad, but that means he’ll be able to fix it more easily, he supposes.

That is, unless the realm’s king decides he wants his gardens to remain sad and withered.

Jaskier scowls. _That would be_ _ridiculous! Even if he_ is _the king of the dead and all, that doesn’t mean he has to live in a palace that looks like it’s falling apart. Why would anyone want to live in a place like this? He’s the king, he could easily do something about it._

He sits back on the bench and picks up his lute, his irritation fading as his calloused fingers rest on the familiar instrument. He hums softly, eyes lighting up as inspiration sparks in his mind.

Jaskier spends the rest of the afternoon intermittently singing gentle ballads and listening to the rustling of the newly-grown leaves. Eventually he drifts off into a light sleep, slouched comfortably on the stone bench.

When he wakes, it’s to a servant gently shaking his shoulder.

“Wha-?” Jaskier says, his voice fuzzy with sleep. He blinks away the haze from his eyes and glances around. The servant gives him a polite bow, revealing a pair of dark, glossy wings.

“His Majesty has requested your presence at dinner. Come.” The servant moves as though to take his lute, but Jaskier quickly shakes his head.

“That won’t be necessary,” he says, shouldering the lute as he stands. “Lead the way.”

The servant frowns, clearly uncomfortable with this breach of etiquette, but doesn’t say anything as they leave the courtyard.

“Do you have a name?” Jaskier asks.

They look at him with mild surprise in their dark eyes. “Servants of Hades have no name.”

Jaskier makes a face. “That’s ridiculous. How would I be able to tell you apart from another servant?”

“We are not meant to be told apart from each other. Our purpose is to serve His Majesty, not to… befriend him.”

“Well, I’m not His Majesty, now are I?” Jaskier says cheerfully. “You can choose a name for yourself, you know.”

“...Choose a name?”

“Sure, why not? I could see you being a Pantelis, or perhaps an Akalios. Maybe a Karolos.” A brief silence follows his words, and Jaskier starts to think he may have overstepped his bounds. _Shit. That was probably rude._

“I suppose you may call me Akalios,” the servant finally says. Their face betrays no emotion, but there is a certain pride in the way their wings shift back, the way they hold themselves just a little bit taller.

Jaskier sees it, and he  _ beams _ .

“Here we are,” Akalios says, gesturing towards the door to the dining hall.

“Thank you, Akalios,” Jaskier says, relishing in the tiny smile they give him before he turns and pushes open the door.

“Well, this place certainly looks a lot nicer than it did this morning,” Jaskier says as he enters the hall. When he had glanced in the room this morning, it had looked sad and deserted. Now it was much more lively; although the table was only set on one end, the dust that had clung to the chairs was gone, and the chandeliers flickered with pale blue flames.

Geralt just looks at him, his gaze inscrutable. “The servants cleaned it up.”

“Oh, like Akalios?” he asks as he pulls out his chair, taking off his lute and setting it in the chair next to him. Geralt glances at it but makes no comment.

“Akalios?”

“One of your servants, I think. Gray skin, black wings? Ring any bells?”

Geralt grunts. “That describes every servant I have.”

“You just haven’t been paying very good attention, I suppose.” Jaskier reaches for a pitcher of wine, only to be stopped by Geralt’s glare.

“What? I’m hungry.”

“I may not get many visitors, but at least allow me to prove that I am a decent host,” Geralt says with a wry twist of his lips. At his nod, a servant steps forward to pour their wine and serve their food, loading each plate with cuts of meat, bread, and fresh fruit.

“Oh.” Jaskier flushes slightly. “My apologizes. My mother didn’t teach me much in the way of, ah, courtly etiquette.”

“Really?” Geralt frowns. “I would have expected her to have brought you to Olympus several times by now.”

“She says I should focus on my studies," he says, his voice bitter.

“Hmm.” Geralt offers no more on the subject, instead turning to his dinner. Jaskier is all too happy to abandon the conversation; he skipped lunch, and now he’s  _ starving _ . He picks up his fork and then pauses.

“Not to be rude, but… this food won’t bind me to the Underworld, by any chance?”

“No. I had servants get food from the surface for you.”

“That was kind of you.” Jaskier eagerly starts cutting into the meat.

“Mm.”

For a time there is silence as the two eat. The food is delicious, richer than any Jaskier has had before.  _ Is this what the food is like in Olympus?  _ he wonders.  _ Better not to ask. It’s probably a sore subject to him. _

“Can I ask you something?” Jaskier says instead.

Geralt glances up at him, his yellow eyes seeming faintly amused. “Something tells me you’ll ask no matter what I say.”

“You’re not wrong. Anyway, why don’t you ever have guests? I mean, the whole death thing is obviously a bit off-putting, but I’d imagine you’d get visitors for-” Jaskier gestures vaguely with his fork. “Official business, or something.”

He chuckles bitterly. “Olympus wants nothing to do with me or the Underworld. They don’t care what I do, so long as it doesn’t alter anything on the surface.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to say something, but Geralt stands abruptly.

“It is late,” he says. “I am going to bed, as should you. Goodnight, Jaskier.”

“Goodnight,” Jaskier manages as he watches Geralt stride from the room, his black cloak sweeping behind him. A servant opens the door for him, bowing their head as he passes.

Jaskier stands as well, awkwardly pushing his chair back in as he watches the servants hurry forward to take their plates. He hovers in the hall, wondering whether he should help, until a hand closes on his shoulder.

“You need rest,” Akalios says. “May I escort you to your chamber?”

“Yeah,” he says, finding suddenly that he’s a lot more tired than he thought he was. He picks up his lute and shoulders it, not bothering to put it all the way across the strap. Akalios opens the door for him, and they begin walking towards the guest rooms.

“I just don’t get him,” Jaskier mutters. “He doesn’t want me here, but then he goes out of his way to get me food so that I can stay. Admittedly I did sort of threaten him into letting me stay--” Akalios chuckles softly at that “--but I feel like it would have been a lot easier if he had just told me I couldn’t eat anything. I’d have left by tomorrow morning. So… why then?”

Akalios is silent for a minute, their gaze pensive. “I cannot presume to know much about His Majesty. He is admittedly rather private about his affairs, and he does not bother to converse with the servants other than to give orders. However, I have been serving him for a long time, and I think--you must not repeat this, you understand--I think he may be lonely. The only one who visits him is Yennefer, and she is a mercurial goddess, and busy, too. Take that combined with the way the other Olympians shun him, and really it’s no wonder he’s desperate for a bit of company.”

Akalios gives him a tiny, sad smile as he opens the door to his room. “Don’t be too hard on His Majesty. He may seem cruel, but he has been through worse than many of us.”

Even long after Jaskier has bathed, changed, and gone to bed, Akalios’s words refuse to leave his brain. He knows it’s not his place, and he knows it’s really none of his business, but he can’t help but think that maybe--just maybe--if he stays for a while, it might make Geralt a little bit less lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i definitely took a lot of artistic liberties this chapter, particularly with the servants and the scene in the courtyard. i spent ages digging through wikipedia trying to find descriptions of hades's servants, but i couldn't find anything, so i just kinda ran with it. 
> 
> i'm sorry for how long this chapter took to write! my teachers are still trying to figure out how to do online classes, and it's been really stressing me out so i took a short break for the sake of my mental health. things are a lot more settled now so hopefully i'll be posting more often! :)


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